I never grew up with the gardens of flowers and fairies.

The sunbeams dodged me with as much vigor as the raindrops aimed for me.

My garden was full of broken walls, debris from the joy I once felt.

I used to hear the joyful music of a child.

Its graceful sonatas turned to shrill noise as the tempo fell apart.

Now screams and breaking sounds fill my numb ears.

What was once home is now a prison.

What was a family is now a group of strangers lost to the flow of time.

And here I sit, alone and lost.

Trying to bring back the garden,

the sonatas,

the “everything” I once had.

“It’s a part of growing up”, they say.

“You did nothing to deserve the bad things that happen.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Yet here I am;

the dust of my past slipping through my fingers,

Laughing and burning as it passes through.

I look behind, and see the magic slowly dying.

I look around, and see the eyes of failure and need.

I look ahead, and darkness greets me with a wary smile.

The voices all around cry,

“Grow up.”

Their expectations close in like fog around my weak heart.

My hand burns as the last of the ashes fall away,

I glance down weakly and smile at the words left behind.

“No.”

I’ll find the magic again.

I will plant my own garden, find my own light.

I will sing and write my own sonatas.

I will build up a life and throw the ashes to the wind.

I will endure and fight, until I can find happiness again.

I will never, ever grow up in darkness.